


What the Beauty Is

by samalander



Series: Better Than Silence [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint Feels, Cunnilingus, F/M, Gym Sex, Het, POV Male Character, PWP, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha doesn't like her job at SHIELD, but she does like sex, and she seems to be okay with Clint Barton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Beauty Is

**Author's Note:**

> Immeasurable thanks to enigma731for the beta, and to her and sugar_fey, who took turns kicking my ass as I wrote this; couldn't have been done without you two!
> 
> Title from "Say it Somehow" from The Light In the Piazza:  
>  _This is wanting something, this is reaching for it,_  
>  _This is wishing that a moment would arrive._  
>  _This is taking chances, this is almost touching, what the beauty is._

When she got to SHIELD, fresh out of the Red Room program, Natasha had never made her own decisions, never been in charge of her own time. And suddenly there she was, an agent who was facing the most dangerous foe she'd ever seen--the revolutionary idea of weekends, of time to be herself. For the first time in her life, Natasha balked, and she wasn't sure, later, if it was because she didn't know how to take a day off, or because she didn't know what self to be when the choice was left to her.

How she managed to go six months with barely any days off, taking mission after mission after mission, wearing out partners and handlers and support staff, Clint wasn't sure. She probably had to make some promises, tell some lies. But she did it.

And when Hill found out, she was furious that Natasha had managed to skirt the rules about mandatory rest and recovery after missions. But Hill's fury was never hot; never the safe kind that burned itself out on revenge. Hill was methodical and evil. She assigned Natasha to Strike Team Delta, because, she said, if Clint was going to recruit pain-in-the-ass agents, then Clint could deal with them himself.

It took roughly two and a half seconds for Natasha to hate being a Delta. They were a surgical team, and not one Fury used lightly; they went where they were needed, when they were needed. Though they were the best of the best, they were still used only in worst-case scenarios. And they were still working for the government. There was a lot of hurry up and wait in the life of a Delta.

The first time she came to him, Clint was on the range on one of their many between days, drilling himself on the finger patterns of his new quiver, calling up arrowhead after arrowhead in an attempt to get it right every time. His shoulders were sore and his muscles were burning and he was damn frustrated by how complicated it was and how poorly he was doing. When the door swung open and he heard her footsteps, he lowered the bow and turned to face her - she was stunning in workout clothes, in a pair of men's shorts and a tank top and no shoes - just as beautiful as she was in a designer dress. He took a minute to appreciate how she moved, up on the balls of her feet like she was going to dance across the room. She was a gymnast, the kind of person who could scale a building if she needed to, and do it with deadly grace. His eyes moved to her face and he saw a momentary thought flick across her face - apparently she had come for some legitimate training, and hadn't exactly expected to find anyone else.

He was still trying to figure out what the look had meant - if this was the moment she would finally kill him for bringing her here - when there she was in his personal space, soft and curved and sweet as she ran a hand up his bicep.

Natasha was a seductress, everyone knew that. She was a well-documented threat to anyone with the inclination to sleep with her, and had a frightening talent for knowing who those people were.

And yeah, Clint was totally one of them. He had been since the moment he first saw her, eight months ago in the sewers of Bangkok. He remembered the way her eyes stared through him, her gaze tired and her face devoid of emotion. He was supposed to draw an arrow and put it through her throat.

He had taken her hand, instead, and brought her back here, where neither of them, frightened animals in the sewer, really belonged. And then he had kept his distance from her, as best he could. Because she was dangerous, and he wanted to possess that danger and keep it locked up inside of him, so the danger could show him how to bear the weight on him, and he could teach it to yield.

"Can I help you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady as he gripped his bow so tightly that his knuckles whitened.

She leaned in, the press of her breasts hot against his skin. "I think you can," she breathed into his ear, and _fuck_ she had no right to be so hot. None at fucking all.

If that was the game she wanted to play, Clint was fine with playing it. "Looking for a fuck?" he asked, grinning ear-to-ear, and showing what he knew to be way too many teeth. He felt predatory, maybe because she was so dangerous.

"Looking for a workout," she said, moving her hand to run a few fingers through his close-cropped hair. "Wanna make me sweat?"

Clint couldn't help himself, he threw his head back and laughed. "You know," he said, when he got his mirth under control - it only took a few seconds, really, but she still managed to look pissed at him. "You sound like every bad porn I've ever seen. Like, is there a pizza man coming? Cause that would just make it perfect."

"I have a strap-on if you want," she shrugged. "But it's in my quarters and I tend to prefer a first time with someone to be one-on-one. Easier to know if I want a second time that way."

Clint only had to think about it for a moment, only take a few seconds to see the life in her eyes, before he twisted his wrist and the bow in his hand collapsed to storage size. He made a show of putting it away, tightly in its case, with the quiver next to it, and removing his boots before turning back to Natasha.

She was across the gym, lounging on a set of mats, looking damn edible in her repose. Clint licked his lips.

"Awful public," he said, adopting what Bobbi used to call his ‘hunting stride' - smooth steps that drew him closer to the target without giving any sense of haste or hurry.

She shrugged. "I had time to lock it down while you were being tender with your equipment." 

He wanted to say something like ‘I'm not a tender guy,' but she stole the air from his lungs by wrapping her fingers in the hem of her tank top and pulling it over her head, exposing her stomach and tight abs, perfect for tracing with his tongue. He was on her in moments, his hands going around her wrists instinctively as he straddled her hips.

"I could break this hold," she said, twisting her right hand so his grip started to falter.

He leaned into her, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin, and nipped at her collar bone, which made her sigh breathily. "You're not going to," he muttered against her skin, and she stilled, allowing him to kiss up her neck.

He paused with his mouth barely an inch away from hers. "Do you kiss on the lips?" he asked.

She answered by closing the space between them, and sinking her teeth into his bottom lip.

He let out a growl, and she released her hold, parting her lips so he could kiss her properly. She was a dirty kisser, which didn't surprise him at all, and she topped it by grinding her hips upward, making his breath stutter with the friction.

He dropped his grip on her wrists to reach down and strip off his shirt, because he needed to feel her flesh against his, and she took the moment of unrestrained freedom to slip her fingers under her sports bra and pull it off, freeing her tits.

He didn't even have to think about it - he leaned down a licked a hot stripe up her stomach, tracing the curve of her chest before lightly nipping and then sucking a nipple into his mouth. She let out a huff of air as he did, arching her back.

"You like that?" he asked, letting go just long enough to switch breasts, scraping his teeth across the hard bud of her nipple before laving it, apologetically, with his tongue.

"You're a little too sweet for me," she hissed, one hand coming down to tug at his hair again.

He leaned up and studied her face for a long moment before he replied.

"Let's see how sweet I am," he said, shifting his weight to free a hand, which he used to pinch her nipple again, hard, "when I've got you bent over and begging for my cock." He twisted her nipple, just enough to hurt. "By the time I'm done with you, Natasha, you won't be able to take three steps without remembering how fucking good it was to have me inside you. You'll be aching for me, and we'll see if I decide to let you blow me. See if you're worth it."

He was actually impressed with that little speech, seeing as he was somehow making his brain work and spew filth while on top of one of the most gorgeous and dangerous women he'd ever met. And she seemed to appreciate it as well, though the only way he could tell was by watching her pupils dilate and feeling her pulse quicken.

"Promise?" she asked, and oh yes, it seemed fierce Natasha, the deadly Black Widow of the Red Room, was a little bit interested in what he was offering. Clint could work with that. He could totally work with that.

"Earn it," he said.

She nodded and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down into another kiss, the kind of kiss that seemed all sweetness and heat until he tasted copper and realized she'd managed to open his bottom lip with her teeth.

He reached down, slipping his hand under the waistband of her shorts, and traced a fingernail along the line of her panties. She gasped and then purred into his mouth. The sound ran down his spine, sending shivers along every nerve, and, in a swift motion he wouldn't remember having made, he pulled her shorts down her long, tantalizing legs. She arched her back to ease the way, and he felt his breath catch at the sight of her underwear - which was weird, usually he wasn't an underwear kind of guy - but there was something sinful about Natasha Romanoff in pink cotton panties with a fucking bow on them. It was a little one, just a tiny decoration on the elastic, but he couldn't help but feel she had wrapped him a Christmas present.

"You're amazing," he breathed, bending down to place a kiss below her naval, right above that fucking bow.

"You should see what I can do with silk and lace," she rumbled, sitting up as she hooked a finger under his chin and pulled him in for another kiss.

He broke it after a minute, the sweetness of her mouth almost overpowering, and realized that, somehow, she had managed to get his pants undone, and halfway down his hips while he was busy drinking in her kiss.

"You go commando when you shoot," she said, a smile playing across her lips, and Clint grinned right back.

"In case any horny teammates wander by," he replied.

"Lucky me."

"Lucky you."

His hands joined hers in removing his pants, and he couldn't help but laugh when his dick slipped free - it was insane, this whole mess of an encounter. He was actually about to fuck Natasha Romanoff on a pile of gym mats. 

"God damn," she muttered. "You have a fucking beautiful cock."

He felt a blush rise in his cheeks, and had to catch his breath because, of all the things women had said to him in bed - all the litany of filth he had heard in his lifetime - that one hit the hardest. 

"Yeah?" he asked, and she nodded enthusiastically, reaching out to wrap her hand around it. Her palms were smooth and soft and cool to the touch, but that could be because she was setting his blood on fire, just by the act of being there.

"Yeah," she replied, "fucking huge, too."

Clint raised an eyebrow. He was a realistic man, and while he had a healthy amount of pride in his body, he wasn't "huge" by any stretch of the imagination. 

It took all the willpower he had ever had, and probably the willpower of most of his unborn descendants, but he sat back on his heels, out of her reach. "Don't tell me what you think I wanna hear," he muttered. "Don't act like I'm a mark you have to seduce."

She stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending.

"If you had walked in and found Fury in the gym," he sighed, "would you have fucked him? Or Hill or Sitwell?"

Natasha shook her head. "No."

"The truth, Natasha."

" _No_ ," she repeated. "I came to train. That you're here and I want to fuck you is a plus."

He regarded her for a long moment, and she let out a frustrated sigh.

"Come on," she said, "I'm not going to tell you all my feelings. I'm not that girl and you're not that guy. I think you're attractive, I think we'll have good sex. It's not because you're a warm body. It's because you're you."

Her eyes speared him, the same tired eyes that had captured him in those sewers, and Clint swallowed around the lump in his throat. The eyes were more alive now, more present. _She_ was more alive and present, and he realized that it wasn't something new, wasn't something that came with sex or arousal - it was Natasha when she wasn't working. He couldn't honestly say he'd ever seen her like that before, looking like a person with thoughts and feelings and opinions. Looking like someone who wasn't trying to get something from someone.

He glanced down at his dick, which had gone soft in the moment of confusion and hurt.

"I think I killed the mood," he sighed.

"Do you want to stop?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I just- you're not pissed?"

She shrugged. "I did something you didn't like in bed. I won't do it again. Doesn't mean we can't still have fucking awesome sex. And it doesn't mean your cock isn't a damn pretty one."

He laughed. "You're pretty stunning yourself."

"So get over here, stud, and show me how much you like me."

He couldn't help the grin that inched up his face, and he closed the gap between them in a move that he would later describe as "like, a tiger maybe," coming to rest crouched between her legs.

Her body was beautiful, all of her was, and Clint imagined a world where he got to spend hours just exploring, stretched out in a bed with massage oils and nothing but time, but that wasn't what now was for; now was hot and dirty and on a pile of gym mats in a semipublic place.

He hooked his thumbs into her panties, taking a moment to savor the slide of her skin under his hands before he gave a sharp pull and she did something that should have been anatomically improbable with her leg (and that was going to be fun to explore later, all the ways she could be bendy) leaving her fully naked before him, less the scrap of pink cotton dangling off her right ankle.

"Fuck," he breathed, because it was the only coherent word he could muster, and he felt his cock hardening again; it didn't take much, not with Natasha in front of him. He shook his head to clear it - which was of little use because she was still there, waiting for him - before brushing the flat of his palm across her mound, tickling the strip of reddish hair that tracked down from her pelvis, and continuing the motion up her body, her flat stomach and the swell of her breasts. He meant to touch her cheek, to pull her into sitting for another kiss - he was starving for another kiss - but she twisted her neck and captured his thumb between her lips, taking a moment to worry it with her teeth before running her tongue around the tip. 

"You play dirty," he said, biting down a moan, and she nodded, her tongue continuing to dance across his captive digit.

He pulled his thumb free, just for the sake of clearheadedness, before leaning down to kiss the top of Natasha's thigh.

"Show me how you touch yourself," he said. "Show me what you like."

She grinned. "Damn, Barton. You like to watch?"

He didn't reply, mostly because she had started to circle one of her nipples with the flat of a finger, teasing it to hardness. He licked his palm before wrapping his right hand firmly around his dick and stroked himself in time to her motions, which seemed to make her speed up, snaking her other hand down to her cunt.

Her movements were surprisingly tender at first, and Clint sat mesmerized as she teased herself, soft touches and trails of fingernails making her murmur and gasp to herself. He wasn't sure how long he watched her; long enough for her fingers to be shiny with wetness as they slipped inside her pussy, hard thrusts withdrawing slowly, no real rhythm to be found.

Clint couldn't take it. He knew he had asked for it, but he needed more than watching, needed to touch and feel and taste. He kicked his legs out from under him, and, laying on his stomach, he reached out and caught her hand, halting her movements. She hissed in frustration, but he didn't intend for that to last long. Anticipation building in his chest, he leaned in and started echoing her movements with his own fingers, strong and calloused and larger than hers, but just as deft. He gave her a minute to adjust to him, to feel the way he moved.

"Good?" he asked, and she nodded frantically.

"More," she said, letting out a shaking breath. "Your mouth."

He didn't need to be asked twice. Clint leaned in and pressed the broad flat of his tongue against her clit, causing her to curse and her hips to jump, but she stopped herself moving with a huff of breath that he thought of as steadying, though if it was for him or her, he wasn't really sure.

Clint had three real loves in life; his bow, arrows, and eating pussy. And he wasn't even sure, in his moments between Natasha's thighs, if those were in order. He set about the task with enthusiasm, and no small amount of skill, slipping one, and then two fingers into her cunt in counterpoint to the movement of his tongue. It was a work of pure joy for Clint, and he considered it a point of pride when Natasha cursed in Russian before muttering, "Damn, Barton, fuck. You're good at this."

He grinned against her skin before pulling back to tease the inside of her thighs with feathery kisses. "You taste incredible," he replied, worrying a spot with his teeth before slowly making his way back down to flick her clit with his tongue.

The teasing was the fun part, watching her come apart under his mouth and his fingers. He echoed the moves she had made, varying speed and pressure until he found the one that made her moan, low and long, her hips jolting with every stroke, and next to his ear, where her thighs were just beginning to squeeze, he felt her femoral pulse speed up. He kept that pace then, until, with nothing more than a grunt and a shockingly delicate gasp, her felt her muscles clamp down on him.

He let her ride it through. If it wasn't the most mind blowing, screaming orgasm he'd ever produced, Clint could live with that because it was _Natasha_ who was having it. It was Natasha who was letting her guard down enough to let him give her pleasure, and that thought made him harder than he'd been since he was a teenager, a painful kind of erection that begged for release.

When she calmed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and her knees unclamped from around his ears, Clint began laying soft kisses along the lines of her body, slowly working his way up to her neck and her mouth.

She kissed him back hungrily, her tongue chasing the taste of her cunt from his mouth, like she couldn't get enough, and if it was at all possible for Clint to get more turned on - and he didn't really think it was - that would do it.

He was lost in the kiss, the sweet feeling of her tongue and the slight hint of teeth, so he didn't even notice when she rolled them, coming to rest on top of him, with her ass grinding against his cock.

"I'm gonna need you to fuck me now," Natasha growled. 

"Yes ma'am," he laughed, his hands finding her hips. "You gonna ride me?"

"Fuck yeah," she said, and without any preamble, rose up on her knees and reached between them to hold his cock steady as she sank - agonizingly slow - onto it.

Clint cussed as the velvety slip-slide of Natasha's pussy enveloped him, doing his best not to thrust up into her until she was fully seated, which was the kind of effort he thought he deserved a medal for.

"You're-" he gasped, his fingers scrabbling for traction on her skin. "Natasha, you're beautiful."

She smiled briefly, almost sadly, before leaning down to kiss him this time just a chaste press of lips.

"What was that for?" he asked, as she sat back up, her fingertips trailing across his chest.

"For being too sweet for me," she said.

He swallowed hard. "Not sure that sweetness is gonna last," he said, "if you don't move."

She laughed and rolled her hips slightly. "Is that a promise, Barton? I remember something about bending me over, making me feel it for days?"

"Yeah," he gasped. "Later. Now. You. Move."

She did, possibly because she was tired of being an evil fucking genius. (And whether that was emphasis or that she was a genius at fucking evilly, well, Clint was happy to split those odds, but he was starting to pity any mark that she might use these kinds of wiles on.)

The pace she set was hard and fast, nearly brutal, and it was all Clint could do to hang on and enjoy the ride, the way she threw her head back and her lips parted like there wasn't any way she could have enough air, not while he was inside her.

Clint managed to sit up and he pulled her close, her tits pressing into his chest and her hands coming around to run through his hair again.

"Goddamn," he whispered, kissing her neck as she continued to ride him, the pace slowing and stuttering, and if he didn't know better, if they weren't the people they were, fucking on the floor of a gym, he would call it making love. But he was relatively sure she didn't make love, just by virtue of who she was. So he could lay that theory to rest.

He moved his hands lower, cupping the swell of her ass - which, for the record, was perfect - and using the leverage it gave him to speed them up a little, just to be sure this didn't turn into something replete with feelings and emotions and other such nonsense.

She took the hint, increasing her pace until Clint had to wonder at her stamina, how her thighs weren't burning with the effort, but he didn't have time to really worry about it. He could feel his orgasm building, with every stroke, every collision of their bodies setting off sparks in his blood, like she was burning him from the inside out.

"I'm close," he panted, and she just nodded, allowing his hands to continue to set the pace, driving her faster as his own hips snapped and stuttered and he finally felt the dam break, his back arching and some kind of animal noise escaping his throat as he spilled his release into her.

He wasn't sure when his hands had let go of her, but Clint found himself clutching Natasha close to him, his head nestled in the crook of her neck, and his breath coming in hot little puffs against her skin.

He kissed the skin in front of him, her neck salty with a sheen of sweat, and looked at her, running a thumb across her lips. Her eyes were bright, still the kind of eyes he wanted to get lost in.

"You're--" he started, but she cut him off by kissing him, gently.

"I know," she said, not unkindly, extracting herself from his embrace and letting him fall back against the mats.

Clint's brain was sluggish, but not so much that he didn't see what was happening. "You don't have to, you know," he offered.

She pulled her underwear on, and began poking in the piles of discarded fabric that had been their clothes. "I know," she said. "But someone is going to come looking for you, or me, or the gym, and I'd like to not be known as someone who sleeps with my coworkers."

Clint tried not to be stung by the words. It was fair enough - she was just being prudent, and she was right. But there was a part of him that winced at the idea of her putting on clothes, unlocking the doors and leaving.

He ran through every sentence his sex-fogged mind could produce - _Don't go_ and _Can I see you again_ and _Want to see a movie?_ \- but they all seemed laughably inadequate in light of what he actually wanted.

"This was--" he offered, but his brain was failing in every direction, and he couldn't seem to get his mouth to say anything worthwhile.

"This was something we should do again," she said. "Soon."

Clint nodded dumbly, pulling on his pants as she handed them to him, and fishing his shirt off of a rack of weights as the ability to stand returned to him.

"Hey," he said, reaching out a hand as she tried, in vain, to fix the mess they'd made of her hair. She turned to look at him, paused for a moment, and placed her hand in his. He pulled her close, cupped her face in his broad palms, and kissed her. "I mean it," he said, running fingers through her hair, though whether he was hurting or helping the cause of fixing it could be debated. "Call me sweet if you want, but I mean it. Let me take you to dinner."

She smiled, but he could see her slipping away, could almost feel the light retreating from her face as she regarded him. "Not tonight," she said. "But yes, we will."

Natasha turned her head to lay a kiss on his palm, which had come back to rest on her cheek, and turned to leave.

He wanted to call out to her. He really wanted to, but there was nothing to say. He had watched her leave before she even moved, watched her turn back into the Black Widow in front of his face. He didn't know how to bring her back. He wasn't even sure he could.

He thought, for a moment, about picking his bow up, getting back to drilling finger patterns and shooting exploding arrows at targets, but he decided against it. He'd had enough of the gym today. He would hit the showers, and maybe tomorrow, or the day after, if he was very lucky, he'd get to see the light in Natasha's eyes again.


End file.
